


Scaling Waterspouts Is Not A Cleared Activity

by cadoodle



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Peter Parker, F/M, Gen, Major Character Injury, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Tony Stark Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:06:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24963484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadoodle/pseuds/cadoodle
Summary: Tony rushes down the corridor. Later, they will look back on this and laugh. A Comedy of Errors, Barton will say, slapping his knee. That One Time Spidey went Splat.  The Oopsie in the Gym Way Back. Everyone will laugh. Peter will laugh. May and Pepper will laugh. They’ll all fucking laugh.The field trip trope, but only sort of.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 30
Kudos: 226





	1. Chapter One

Tony rushes down the corridor. Later, they will look back on this and laugh. A Comedy of Errors, Barton will say, slapping his knee. That One Time Spidey went Splat. The Oopsie in the Gym Way Back. Everyone will laugh. Peter will laugh. May and Pepper will laugh. They’ll all _fucking laugh._

Tony skids to a stop at a corner, tucks his glasses in his pocket, pushes his hair back. He puts his phone up to his ear, takes a few measured steps back, counts himself down, then _struts._

“Well Ms. Potts, as much as I’d love to be there to present there’s other things that demand my time and I’m afraid—“ He pretends to just notice the crowd of teenagers gawking at him as he comes around the corner and holds a non-robotic finger up in their direction. They hush instantly of course, a simmering pot of pubescent excitement. God, he abhors teenagers. Most teenagers. All teenagers bar several sort of alright teenagers.

“What things?” He continues in response to pretend Pepper, “Well, there’s watching paint dry on the Mark L, for instance, or…” he stops thoughtfully, eying the group whose whispers spike in pitch as he overtly considers them. “Tutoring the youth of tomorrow. Yes, yes. No. No, yes.” Their beady little eyes ping pong as he nods and shakes his head in quick succession, allowing non-existent Pepper to question him.

“Yes, that tour group. Well if I recall correctly, and I do, it was you who said I should be more involved in—“ he cuts off, a patient smirk on his lips. Gosh, The Ghost of Still Alive Ms. Potts really doesn’t let him get a word in. Well, he supposes that’s why he fell in love with Real Her. “Fine, I’ll be there this afternoon. Yes, five o’clock on the dot. Perfect. See you there, Mrs. Stark.” He clicks somewhere on the screen of his phone to hang up The Call That Never Was, and tucks it back in his suit pants. Then he puts on his best Tony Stark smile, still 100% effective despite the scars pulling at the right corner.

“I hope you don’t mind me crashing this shindig,” He says to the tallish young woman wearing the tour guide uniform. The guides here at Stark Memorial Center, previously named Avengers Compound, deal with everyone from school children to foreign dignitaries. Still, he’s reluctantly impressed when she favors him with a professional smile.

“Of course not Mr. Stark. It would be a pleasure to have you accompany us on this tour,” she says politely, eyes not once straying to his metal prosthetic or streaky facial scars while the little cretins openly stare. He makes a note to raise the salary of whoever is in charge of the guide program.

“Perfect,” Tony says, stepping into line. “Who are we dealing with here? Not some Olympic hopefuls I’m guessing,” he surveys the scrawny looking bunch, stopping to nod at one particularly built Asian boy, “Except for you, I guess. Jesus, you’re a student? Sure this isn’t a 21 Jump Street scenario? How old are you? Don’t answer that. Model UN? Actual UN, de-aged? Kidding,” he says to one the teachers, a bearded man with thin spectacles whose mouth appears to be perpetually open, “We don’t have that sort of tech here.”

Someone in the crowd mutters, “Does that mean you have it somewhere _else_?” successfully raising the group’s average on Tony’s respect-o-meter just as another adult clears his throat.

“This is the Academic Decathlon Team of Midtown School of Science and Technology, located in Queens, New York. It’s an honor to meet you, Dr. Stark,” the middle-aged Asian man says. “My name is Jim Morita, I’m the Principal of the school, and this is Roger Harrington, the faculty advisor for the team.” The bespectacled man’s mouth snaps shut at Morita’s sharp look, and he hurries forward.

“An honor, Dr. Stark,” Roger parrots, extending his right hand before hurriedly switching to his left, then hesitantly back to his right. Tony grabs it in his metal hand before Roger can do the hokey-pokey and turn himself around, and the man jumps.

“Sorry, runs cold,” Tony says with a shrug and a smirk because no, he is not very apologetic about the temperature of his metal arm, the metal arm that he got after losing the real one to save half of the universe. Roger’s face has shifted from awe to fascination in a way Tony recognizes as a fellow nerd, so he smoothly pulls his hand back before the man can properly examine anything. Technology courtesy of a Wakandan princess with a little bit of alien raccoon elbow grease (and man, is he glad he was out cold in a hyperbaric chamber and not present for that collaboration. King T’challa still flinches when he sees the arm) is best kept under wraps.

“Nice to meet you Midtown,” Tony says to the group. “Welcome to the Stark Memorial Center. I’d be happy to do a little Q&A in a bit, but let’s finish up the tour first. I’ve never been on one of these and who knows, maybe I’ll have some secrets to spill about what’s really behind door number three. Hint: it’s not Cap’s underpants; the man is meticulous about his laundry.” Cap also doesn’t do laundry here, opting to spend the bulk of his time in his quiet Brooklyn apartment after this place opened to the public. “Shall we?” Tony gestures for the guide, whose nametag reads Megan Thornton, to go ahead.

They make it to two more spots. The first is a lower level conference room, one of the few places that survived the attack by Thanos mostly intact. They’ve taken out one of the walls and replaced it with glass, so the kids can peer in without actually going inside. It’s also the room where most of the planning for the Time Heist, a mission name Tony still considers stupid, occurred. Ms. Thornton doesn’t share that factoid, as she does not know it. No one does.

As far as the general public is concerned, the Time Heist never happened. Instead, they are told that the Avengers got word from Captain Marvel that the stones might not be gone after all, conducted a series of secret missions to retrieve them, brought everyone back, and were subsequently attacked by Thanos’ remaining followers. And yeah, Tony Stark almost died saving the world, blah blah blah. No time travel, no quantum tunnels, no generals of war banging down their door trying to weaponize tech they don’t understand.

Ms. Thornton recounts the Battle of Earth and he only half-listens, choosing instead to examine the room he hasn’t stepped foot in in months. Scorch marks creep along the walls. Chairs are upended. A soda can still sits, untouched, on a long dark table. Probably Rhodey’s, the sugar fiend.

The group looks at Tony expectantly and he blinks, rewinding Ms. Thornton’s words. There is a lone hologram flickering before the table, too light and broken to properly display anything. No one knows what it is trying to project, but perhaps Tony has an idea? If he squints, Tony can just make out the outline of the Power Stone. The hologram flickers out. Repeats.

Tony shrugs. “No idea,” he says. They move on not long after.

The second stop is one of the several actual memorial halls. A marble wall stretches to the ceiling, some hundred feet high. Engraved are the names of those lost due to The Blip or during the Battle of Earth and Battle of Wakanda. Wakandan soldiers make up a fair portion, whose names glow purple at King T’Challa’s request. Those who died as a consequence of The Blip, not in the Blip itself, also line the wall.

The kids have previously been whispering furiously, kept in check only by Morita and Roger’s hands on their shoulders or sharp glances. Now they are quiet as can be. Allowed to roam, their footsteps echo in the silence. They crane their necks up, some searching for the _Vision_ and _Natasha Romanov_ , others looking for those they knew personally. Sniffles puncture the quiet, tissue box installations at the ready for this exact reason. Tony takes this time to stare out the opposing window into the tranquil lake, which gleams with the reflection of the sun.

Once they have regrouped and exited, Morita finally cracks. “Dr. Stark,” he says, trying to keep pace with Tony, “I actually have something of import I was hoping to ask you about.” Despite his attempt at being hushed, the kids perk up behind them.

“If it came from the NY Post it’s not true, if it came from the Daily Beast it might be. Those guys got my coffee order dead to rights,” Tony says immediately. “And I don’t put crap in my hair; I just have a really good blow dryer.”

“Dr. Stark,” Morita repeats weakly, and then more firmly: “I’m afraid it’s nothing like that, but something I’d really like to clear up before we continue.”

Tony squints at Morita, pretending to consider him. In actuality he knows exactly what Morita wants to ask him about. It’s the reason he’s here, after all. “All right,” he says slowly, “Shoot.”

“It’s about a student of ours,” Morita starts, nodding at Roger, who attempts a smile and lands on showing his teeth, “Pe—“

“Do you know Peter Parker?” A short hispanic teen that definitely puts crap in his hair blurts at him loudly. It’s obvious he’s been holding it in for a while. “Because if not, he’s broken into your Center. Sir. Mr. Stark, sir.” He stammers.

Tony raises an eyebrow at him as Morita hisses “Eugene!” and Roger winces and says “Well ‘broken into’ seems like a strong choice of words—” That’s all it takes for the kids to burst into chatter, mostly directed at him, each trying to explain the events previous to Tony joining the tour louder than the other.

Tony maintains his poker face. “Peter Parker?” he asks. Everyone shuts up. “Huh,” Tony says.

Showtime.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha Romanov does not regret dying.
> 
> “What the fuck happened?”
> 
>  _Living,_ on the other hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is talk of bodily injury in this chapter. This has been added to the tags.

_Two Days Ago_

Natasha Romanov does not regret dying.

_“What the fuck happened?”_

_Living_ , on the other hand.

_“_ You said it was going to be routine! Low key!” Tony hisses. If she were a man, he’d have grabbed her by the lapels. He still steps into her personal space like a feral cat, ready to go for the eyes. Natasha is…less than impressed.

“The intel was bad,” she says.

“Oh, the intel was bad, the intel was bad,” Tony mocks. “Is that what I should say to his Aunt? ‘Oh so sorry about your severely injured nephew May. Which nephew you ask? The nephew I swore to protect after you threatened to take my other arm as collateral? Yeah, yeah that nephew. So sorry, but you see it’s not my fault, it’s no one’s fault, the _intel was bad_!’”

“Wow, where was this concern when you were dragging him onto an alien spaceship?” Sam asks from his perch on the exam table. A medbay nurse carefully cleans the scratches on his face. Despite his casual tone, Natasha notes how tight he’s gripping the table. Tony does not, whirling around to face him.

“First of all, that is a completely _false_ version of events,” he says, pointing a finger in Sam’s face, “Second _,_ you _sure_ you want to chime in here bald eagle? Pretty sure the kid got hurt saving _your_ ass after all. Fuck, I knew all sequels were bad but I’m definitely thinking a recasting’s in order, don’t you? Shouldn’t we put who gets to be Cap 2.0 to a group vote?”

“Sam, don’t let him goad you,” Natasha says, grabbing Tony by the wrist and pulling him out of the room before Sam, frowning darkly, says something he regrets. It has been months since Steve’s decision to “take a break” from the Avengers, and while the phrasing seems ambiguous, the likely permanence of Steve’s decision has put a lot of pressure on Sam. Tony knows this as well as Natasha, and is actively exploiting it because lashing out is how he deals with any complex emotions.

“It’s not Sam’s fault,” Natasha says over Tony’s protests. “It’s not yours either.” His mouth snaps shut. He glares at her mulishly.

“I shouldn’t have let him go,” he says darkly. Natasha hears the unspoken _without me_.

“Everyone knows that if you had your way, Peter would never so much as touch the suit again. But that’s not how the kid operates.” Natasha says. Tony collapses in one of the armchairs in the waiting area, burying his head in his hands. Natasha leans against the coffee table before him. “No one’s blaming you, and no one’s going to.” It won’t stop him from taking it. Even though he’d been against Peter accompanying her and Sam from the beginning.

“And for what it’s worth, Peter did great,” Natasha admits. She had known he would. After all, he’d been training under her for the past several months. When Tony had asked her he had obviously expected her to say no, but Natasha understood what it meant when you couldn’t run away from yourself anymore. And Peter was definitely done running. He had this blinding drive to better himself that made even Barnes tolerate him, dead set on joining the Avengers in more than just name as he approached eighteen.

When Natasha called Peter to go on what was supposed to be just recon of a possible HYDRA base, she already knew he would say yes. It was going to double as a simple check-in on his progress, which was what she had assured Tony of earlier that day. Iron Man, especially semi-retired still recovering Iron Man with the loud thrusters, would be out of place.

“Despite his innate chattiness, he was great at stealth. He understood the second things went wrong that the plan had changed, he followed direction well but also acted independently in a smart way, and he covered his team.”

“And bashed his head in in the process,” Tony says bitterly.

“It’s a severe concussion,” Natasha says. “You heard Cho. With his healing factor it’ll be gone within a day.”

“He had a _seizure_ , Natasha,” Tony says, eyes wide. “He didn’t know where he was when you brought him in!”

“All of which is symptomatic of a _severe concussion_ ,” Natasha says. Sam had beat her to him, cussing up a storm as he yelled at Peter’s AI to remove his mask. Just in time, as Peter vomited on Sam’s shoes. He’d groaned, slurring up at her “S’okaay?” before fainting.

“He seized once, briefly. Cho has confirmed his skull has already healed where it cracked, and the swelling is going down. He’s not a normal person. He’s going to be fine,” Natasha says, “And he’ll be kept here under observation the whole time. If we need a second opinion we can call Strange, he owes me a favor.” The favor being she sacrificed her ass.

“Shit,” Tony murmurs. “He was supposed to go home tomorrow morning. I need to call his Aunt.”

“Go,” Natasha says. “I’ll be here.”

Tony points at her, “This isn’t over. As far as I’m concerned, he’s grounded. No missions ‘til we figure this shit out.”

“He’ll be back to climbing waterspouts in no time,” Natasha says with a smirk. Sam likes to sing or hum that Itsy Bitsy Spider song all the time, mostly because it pisses Peter off. He takes particular glee in catching Peter singing it to himself when it gets suck in his head.

“No. No waterspouts. Scaling waterspouts is not a cleared activity at this time. Keep him away from any damn waterspouts,” Tony says before stomping away.

As Tony finds somewhere private to make his call, Natasha finds herself in Peter’s medbay room, dismissing the current attendant. Despite Tony’s panic Peter really is doing better, sleeping peacefully without oxygen therapy. Although his initial reaction was extreme, it’s not dissimilar from his experience being shot, which he’s described to Natasha only after checking twice to make sure Tony was not in the vicinity (ridiculous, as he has super-hearing and Tony is _definitely_ aware Peter’s gotten shot before). Sure he coughs up some blood if the bullet hits something important, but once his healing factor kicks in he can practically shrug off GSWs; it’s unsurprising TBIs aren’t going to be that different.

Tony will realize that too once he’s had a chance to calm down, but he’s still shaken from a relatively low-level mission turned dangerous. Natasha feels guilty for the slip, but these things can happen when you investigate second-hand information, and she wouldn’t have brought Peter along if she didn’t feel like he could handle it at its worst-case scenario. She’ll deal with her source tomorrow, but right now she’s going to enjoy feeling _invigorated_. During the Blip she spent less time engaging in hand-to-hand combat and dismantling underground terrorist movements and spent more time working with governments, trying to track down Clint, and sitting in the Compound feeling sorry for herself.

It’s the main reason Natasha Romanov has stayed dead. Although her funeral service was not open to the public or televised, before it had even occurred it was common knowledge that the Black Widow had given her life to save the world. Steve had left to return the stones shortly after her funeral with no idea he’d be returning with her. But when she had returned, still unsure of what deal Steve had brokered to get her back but sure one had been made, Tony had offered to find a way to explain away her resurrection. Natasha hadn’t hesitated. She was done being in the public eye.

At the time, stepping into the light as an Avenger had been the right choice. She would never regret it, even when being on the run made it doubly annoying. Now, though, now she was ready to go back to her life of anonymity, the ease it afforded her, and the good she could do with it. She is a product of the Red Room, and using those skills to be the best goddamn spy in service of the “enemy” will always be her greatest revenge.

“Hi, Nnntasha,” Peter slurs up at her. He frowns, taking in the unfamiliar room. “I m’n Nnndine,” he corrects. Nadine Roman is a new alias, complete with a passport and social security. She smiles.

“Discreet. Extra points for remembering with a big dent in your head,” she says.

Peter’s brow furrows more. “’m pointy? Dat’s no goo,” he says. Natasha catches his hand on its way to touch his head.

“Just teasing, Webs,” she says. “Go back to sleep. You need to be well rested for future missions.”

Peter beams at her. “’m on the team?”

“You always are,” Natasha says unbidden, and it’s one of the most honest things she’s ever said to him. As far as she’s concerned Peter _is_ the Avengers. Clint is unlikely to come back this time, Cap is done, Vision’s gone, Wanda has left in a desperate attempt to cope with that, and Iron Man is incapacitated for the foreseeable future. Spider-man _is_ the foreseeable future, and beyond.

Sam can see it too, however reluctantly. “That kid,” he said to her once, as they shared a drink. “That kid is going to be the best out of all of us.”

“’m on the team.” Peter cooes at her.

“You won’t be if you don’t sleep more. And I mean at home too. A Sleepy Spider-man is a Squashed Spider-man.”

“I feel pree squash righ’ now,” Peter admits. “Dih I geh squash?”

“Just a little. You’ll be better in no time,” She tucks his hand in at his side. “And when you are, we’re going to talk about not saving people at your own expense.”

“Hmm?” Peter says. He’s already drifting off.

“I know that’s kind of your MO, but I draw the line at HYDRA agents.”

Peter’s eyes snap open. “He ’da died,” He mutters in a moment of clarity.

“Then so be it.”

“’S my fault.”

“It was his fault the second he turned the gun on Sam,” Natasha says. Peter tries shaking his head but mostly ends up wiggling his arms.

“No, I kicked ‘im. Toooo hard.” He had. As Sam has explained it, he’d swung over on his webs and roundhouse kicked the agent about to put a bullet in Sam’s head. Unfortunately, the strength of his kick sent the agent back in the direction of the building, a good hundred feet away. Panicked, Peter had shot a web at the wall and flung himself at the man, catching him in mid-air and rolling them to take the brunt of the blow. He’d crashed head first into a reinforced wall.

“You protected Sam, and that will always be the most important thing. But I’m removing the reinforced equipment from the gym. If learning how to mitigate your powers on normal people is important to you, then we’ll do it.” It’s a glaring issue that Natasha has somehow missed prior to today. She _had_ clocked his poor hand-to-hand combat skills almost immediately while reviewing his fights. The kid had amazing reflexes but he was resting on them and his webs that did not work well for close encounters. There was a reason he typically put distance between himself and his opponents, attacking from a high vantage point wherever possible. He hadn’t had any close combat training and it showed.

Of course, she’d made that a priority under her mentorship. But what Natasha had thought of as hesitancy due to inexperience, she now realized was due to his inability to control his own strength. All the evidence added up. Although he was far from breaking doorknobs with a single grip, Peter _did_ have slip ups when high on adrenaline. He’d learned quickly with the wooden dummy but seemed to forget everything when fighting her. She’d thought it was because she made him nervous. But the wooden dummy was actually _reinforced vibranium._ As were the punching bags, the pull up bars, the body opponent bags, the wavemasters, etc. Natasha was _not_ reinforced vibranium. Punching a hole through her was probably Peter’s worst nightmare.

“Thnks,” Peter says quietly. Natasha stifles the urge to ruffle his hair.

“You did really well out there,” Natasha says. Peter smiles up at her dopily.

“Yaaaaaay,” he cheers, trailing off. His eyes slide closed. “Does it mean ‘m on th’ team?” he asks, before his breathing deepens. Natasha leaves the room, closing the door carefully. She waves an attendant over and informs her Peter has been awake and for how long, answering a few questions on the quality of his speech and response time before going to find Sam.

Peter must take her command to sleep very seriously, because he sleeps the next day through, only waking up at Cho’s requested checkpoints to answer Tony’s questions about metaphysics and biomechanics and swallow a cheeseburger whole. Natasha takes this time to finish remodeling the gym and go after her source. Upon her return she finds out his Aunt May stopped by briefly to check on Peter, calmed at the sight of Morgan reading a picture book to him as he snoozed (which was probably Tony’s play all along). Assured by Cho that he is in good health, just tired, she decides to call him in sick Monday so he can rest up one extra day.

Apparently Peter takes her commands not as seriously as she thought, because he is not resting come Monday. Instead, Tony finds her and Sam in the private quarters, eyes wild.

“Did you see a spiderling? Tell me he’s on the ceiling somewhere eating frosted flakes,” he says, already checking Peter’s personal room. “Pete? _Pete!”_

“What’s going on?” Natasha says, jumping up from the barstool, lunch forgotten. “FRIDAY?”

_“Mister Parker’s school group has begun their tour.”_ FRIDAY answers pleasantly.

“His school had a tour today?” Sam asks.

“We forgot. I forgot, May must’ve forgot,” Tony blurts, checking under Peter’s bed. “Which wouldn’t be a problem if he had just _stayed in bed._ Fuck! FRIDAY, how’s that scan coming along?”

_“Still scanning for Peter Parker. Estimated time to completion: 3 minutes.”_

“Why isn’t he in bed?” Natasha asks, making a mental list of which spaces are open to the public versus private in case they have to retrieve Peter.

“Guess he was done being the model patient,” Tony says. “And since Cho waived his observation yesterday night, no one saw him leave.”

_“Boss, I have located Peter Parker._ ”

“Show me,” Tony grunts. The television flickers on. The three of them crowd in front of it.

Apparently Peter does take her commands too seriously after all. How else can one explain the weighted pull-ups he’s doing little more than a day after his traumatic brain injury? He’s going slower than usual—trying, she realizes, not to dent the metal bars.

“I’m going to kill him,” Tony says, just as Sam points to the side of the screen, asking “Is that…?”

A group of kids and three adults stand before the gym’s viewing window—and based on the way they’re just standing there, she’s guessing Peter didn’t think to turn the smartglass on.

“Shit, FRIDAY, tint the window—“

“Don’t do that FRIDAY!” Natasha cuts him off. “Tony, think this through. They’ve already seen him. Turning the smartglass on now would be like we had something to hide.”

_“Boss?”_

“Don’t do it, FRIDAY,” Tony says slowly. He tips his head back. Sighs. “Okay. Here we go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say it with me: Realistic whump. Hopefully. 
> 
> After this is done I plan to write a short side story on what exactly the deal was Steve made. Let me know if you're interested.
> 
> As always, leave a comment if you enjoyed! Next chapter will finish stuff up. :)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn’t take MJ’s acute powers of observation to realize that Ned is anxious. He’s projecting it loud and clear; turning this way and that in the school parking lot, eyes occasionally skimming the nearby rooftops. He pulls his phone out of his pocket for the twentieth time and checks his messages, frowning. The AcaDec team mills about around them, chatting excitedly.
> 
> “Hi Ned,” MJ says. Ned jumps, even though she’s been standing beside him for the past five minutes.

_Three Hours Earlier_

It doesn’t take MJ’s acute powers of observation to realize that Ned is anxious. He’s projecting it loud and clear; turning this way and that in the school parking lot, eyes occasionally skimming the nearby rooftops. He pulls his phone out of his pocket for the twentieth time and checks his messages, frowning. The AcaDec team mills about around them, chatting excitedly.

“Hi Ned,” MJ says. Ned jumps, even though she’s been standing beside him for the past five minutes.

“MJ!” he says. “Hi! How’s it going?”

MJ shrugs in answer. “You?”

“Uh me? I’m good. Okay, I guess,” Ned says. “Have you seen Peter?”

“Nope,” MJ says. Ned’s face falls.

“Yeah, neither have I.”

“Did you try calling or texting?” MJ asks. Ned nods, but forces a smile at her.

“He’s not responding. But I’m sure he’s okay!” he says. MJ’s blood runs cold. “When was the last time you heard from him?” she asks, realizing belatedly she sounds too urgent. Thankfully Ned doesn’t seem to find it weird, too wrapped up in his own concern.

“Friday, but that’s on me,” he rushes to say. “He kinda had something important this weekend. Internship stuff.” Ah yes. The ‘internship’. Based on MJ’s suspicions, that doesn’t make her feel better. “I didn’t want to bother him. I only texted him this morning.” Ned scans the rooftops again. “I hope he didn’t get hurt or anything,” he says absently.

MJ raises an eyebrow, “Why would he get hurt at his internship?” she asks, deadpan. Ned startles.

“Ah he—Chemicals! I mean, he handles chemicals at work, sometimes,” Ned blusters, laughing nervously. “He has to wear goggles to protect his eyes, y’know, typical lab stuff.” MJ stares at him impassively as he fidgets.

“Okay, everyone on the bus!” Mr. Harrington yells, herding the Decathlon Team towards the large coach they’ve rented for the occasion. Ned makes a beeline for him. 

“Mr. Harrington, Peter’s not here yet,” he says. Mr. Harrington checks Cindy’s name off his clipboard as she ascends onto the bus. “I’m afraid Peter’s out sick today Ned, his Aunt called the office earlier,” he says, “Guys, no pushing! Speaking of Peter’s Aunt, do you know if—“

“Okay thanks Mr. Harrington,” MJ says, grabbing Ned by the wrist and pulling him onto the bus. Ned, now looking much more relieved, follows obediently.

“Hey,” he says, a little shyly, “wanna sit together?” MJ, a little touched but not willing to admit it, shrugs. “I’m not much of a talker,” she warns. Ned smiles, shaking his head, “Oh that’s totally cool, I like napping myself,” he says.

“Aw, losers of a feather, flock together,” Flash says loudly from his seat, of course, at the very front. MJ notes his own lack of seat buddy without surprise. MJ, Ned, Peter, and Flash are the only Academic Decathlon members that got Blipped. Though Flash would sooner jump off a cliff than admit it, as a result the four of them tend to stick together.

This isn’t a strange occurrence. Blipped students and Not Blipped students (or _The Returners_ and _The Remainers_ , as they’ve been publicly coined) interact awkwardly. Things have sort of smoothed out months later (after several assemblies on proper conduct towards the newly returned), but it’s hard to get over tons of kids asking you what you remember from the most traumatic moment in your life as if your answer is going to be any different from anyone else’s. The Returned are bonded over something they can’t explain and don’t really remember, and it weirds the Remainder out. Add in a false sense of superiority for some of those who never Blipped—despite the Avengers' numerous statements to the contrary, _the Chosen_ is another coinage that floats around—and you get a social divide that will never quite be bridged but hopefully, with time, forgotten.

To be fair, the other four Decathlon members _aren’t_ mean. Brad even borders on _too_ nice. They’re just distant. It probably doesn’t help that the current Captain, Patricia, seems convinced that MJ is gunning for her position (she’s not) and tiptoes warily around her like at any moment MJ is going to state her case to Mr. Harrington (she won’t), who will then take pity on her the way he does all of the Blipped kids and make MJ Captain again (he would).

MJ misses being Captain, yeah, but she had her turn at it and there will be other leadership roles in college. What she really misses (and is quietly devastated by, if she is being truthful) are the budding friendships from five years ago. Academic Decathlon was consistent and fun. The team liked and appreciated her, even Flash. She might be a loner by choice, but she still gets lonely sometimes, and AcaDec used to scratch that itch.

Not long after they had returned from the Blip, Abe had sent her an email using an address that ended in @columbia.edu. He’d graduated recently and was currently studying for the MCAT. When they met up for coffee, he’d beamed before sweeping her into a hug, now taller than her.

“I went to your apartment,” he’d told her. After much prodding, she’d hosted the team there once for a practice session. When the Blip happened, the group chat that they previously used sparingly had gone nuts and he’d found himself running the seven streets down to pound at her door. No one had answered.

He’d smiled at her as he recalled that day, eyes dark with pain. “I am not religious. But it was Hell,” he said plainly. “Like Hell had come to Earth.”

They’d exchanged contact information and promised to stay in touch, but it was different. Everything felt different. The first time her Nana had come over after she’d returned and made her brown butter cornbread MJ had burst into tears. The taste was unchanged. Coming to school and seeing Peter and Ned hugging was like biting into that cornbread all over again. At first she’d been chasing that feeling of sameness, but now she actually enjoys spending time with them. Refers to them as her friends in her head. She could probably text Peter more than once a week and he wouldn’t even find it weird. Ha. If only.

That’s another thing that hasn’t changed. Her complete crush on Peter Parker and her complete inability to do anything about it.

“Flash, you can’t sit here, get up,” Mr. Harrington says, shooing him down the aisle. Flash stomps down, indignant, before taking the seat in front of Ned and MJ’s. He pops his head over immediately as MJ pulls her headphones and _Americanah_ out.

“Guess Parker was too embarrassed to show up, huh? Didn’t want to get exposed for lying about his internship in front of everyone?” He says loudly. The kids around them shift, eyes turning towards them.

“Peter’s out sick, Flash.” Ned says from the window seat, visibly annoyed. “And his internship is real.”

“Come on,” Flash snorts. “Stark Tower doesn’t exist anymore, and the Avengers Compound is now the Stark Memorial Center. Even if Penis had an internship before, which, _unlikely_ , where does he work _now?”_ He’s still talking too loudly. Flash has been less vocal about his disbelief as Peter has mentioned it less, but now MJ sees Patricia turn to Cindy, eyebrows raised. Ned’s frown intensifies. He opens his mouth but MJ beats him to it.

“Everyone doing an internship has to submit their paperwork to the school, Flash,” she says. “The school then follows up with the company. Don’t you think Mr. Harrington would’ve said something if Peter’s internship wasn’t real?” Honestly, probably not. Flash looks equally skeptical, but before he can say anything Mr. Harrington whistles.

“Okay, everyone! Peter won’t be joining us, I’m afraid, but we do have a special guest instead!” he says. To everyone’s surprise, Principal Morita ascends onto the bus. The chatter dies out. Flash’s mouth snaps shut.

“Hello everyone! Roger told me you had a spot open on your tour, so I hope you don’t mind me coming along,” he says. “I don’t know about all of you, but I’m excited!”

Mr. Harrington fumbles for a second to let Principal Morita pass and take the seat he’d told Flash to vacate. He clears his throat, smacking his hand against his clipboard then wincing.

“Okay, a few quick things before we go. First, congrats on winning Nationals!” Everyone cheers and whoops.

“Stark Memorial Center has graciously offered the winning team a grand tour, all expenses paid.” There was also a cash prize, but MJ doubts they’ll see a penny of that money. She still plans on asking Mr. Harrington for a breakdown on where it was allocated, just to keep him on his toes.

“It’s about two hours to Stark Memorial Center. Once we’re there we’ll have lunch in their outdoor gardens. The tour is set to start at 1pm and go on until 5pm. We will be eating dinner at a restaurant nearby, which will be covered by the school as a congratulations on winning.” Everyone cheers again. “We should return to the parking lot around 8pm, 8:30.”

“Please keep in mind, you will be representing Midtown. As such…”

MJ tunes Mr. Harrington out in favor of sliding her headphones on. It’s just the usual stuff; anyone who acts out will be walked back to the bus, listen to the tour guides, be respectful, etc. With Principal Morita on the trip comes the added benefit of those rules being actually enforced. Case in point, Flash sits quietly in front of them instead of turning to loudly taunt Ned some more.

The bus ride is mostly uneventful. Ned takes his phone out occasionally to tap at it in between naps. A little bit of the worry returns to his face. At one point he leaves a hushed voicemail to Peter that MJ can hear perfectly because her headphones aren’t actually on. She quietly sighs at her book at certain points in Ned’s message, which startles him enough that he keeps everything vague, just asking if Peter’s feeling better, how the internship went, and to call him back. MJ only feels slightly guilty for listening in.

The thing about having a crush on Peter Parker, though, is you tend to watch Peter Parker. When Peter Parker isn’t around, you watch his friends. Friend. By the time they’ve finished lunch, in beautifully planted gardens you’d never known was once charred, flooded earth but for the commemorative plaques, Ned looks ready to burst out of his skin. He has also called Peter three more times and Peter’s Aunt May twice, to no success.

MJ tucks her sketchbook back into her backpack, because she is the Queen of multitasking, and lines up with the rest of the group by the clear glass doors. She tries to think of what to say to Ned to reassure him, which is difficult as his concern is rubbing off on her. What exactly is ‘important internship stuff’ code for? But before she can attempt an interrogation they enter into the Center and Ned’s eyes go wide with awe. He, and much of the team, gape at the vaulted ceilings and pillars.

The rebuilt Stark Memorial Center is as sleek as the original, if the framed pictures in the lobby are anything to go by. Prior to being blown up, The Avengers Facility had been unknown to the public. After being blown up, reporters had done some digging and uncovered its history as a series of Stark warehouses. That it had then gone on to house the Avengers and even give them refuge after the Blip, an _Atlantic_ article pointed out, was a testament to Tony Stark’s continued devotion to the Avengers. MJ personally finds that conjecture, but the world has gone understandably soft on Stark after his whole gambit to save the world, _again._

Their guide, Ms. Thornton, introduces herself after Mr. Harrington checks them in. MJ notes happily she is wearing pants with her dark violet uniform, not against skirts so much as satisfied female guides are given an option.

Ms. Thornton directs them through security. Afterwards she walks them through several understandable rules; no photography in sections designated by signs to protect the privacy of fellow guests, no speaking loudly in sections dedicated to the memorials themselves, no wandering from the group, etc. She reminds them that they have all signed a non-disclosure agreement, as some of the areas they visit are still residential to Avengers, family of said Avengers, and Stark staff. This sends an undercurrent of excitement through the group. Ned’s anxiety is seemingly forgotten.

Flash raises his hand, continuing to be on his best behavior. “Does that mean there’s a chance we could meet an Avenger?” he asks.

“There is always a chance, but I’m not sure I would get too hopeful,” Ms. Thornton says with an apologetic smile. “The Avengers value their privacy, and the privacy of their guests. As such, they are usually informed of any incoming tours.” The group looks like a toddler whose balloon has been popped.

As they follow her through the corridors, Ms. Thornton details the aforementioned history of the building. After the attack by Thanos’ followers, Wakanda had offered to purchase what remained and rebuild the Wakandan Memorial Center in its place. As numerous reports detailed, Stark had been all for it but the government had moved to block the deal, uncomfortable with granting a foreign superpower land outside of its embassy, let alone land that had once housed important technology. Wakanda had raised its bid, which had only made the U.S. more reticent. Stark had then stepped in and declared it wasn’t for sale after all and he would be covering all renovations, before handing all design power to a team of Wakandan architects.

MJ isn’t the most ardent Tony Stark fan, but even she can admit it was a pretty classy move, especially for someone fresh out of a coma.

Overall, The Stark Memorial Center seems fairly similar to its predecessor. Private areas are still reserved for Avenger and Stark use, with employees and visitors commingling politely in the public areas. But the memorials are sprawling and deeply personal. From what MJ has read and can already see, the exhibits capture the fight that took place and the lives that were lost without glorifying the violence.

As they exit an elevator and turn the corner they come across a large glass window that runs along the slim hallway. On the other side of the window is a professional gym that would look like any other if it weren’t for the combat equipment lining the walls. At the farthest end a shirtless man is doing pull ups.

“This gym, once used by Natasha Romanov, is still open for use,” Ms. Thornton explains without prompting as they descend the hallway. Patricia, Cindy, and Dex all giggle. Mr. Harrington awkwardly laughs. Next to MJ, Ned squeaks. She turns to him and he’s staring beyond her, panicked. Patricia, Cindy, and Dex suddenly go quiet. And then MJ knows, before she’s even turned back around, what he’s staring at.

The thing about watching your crush Peter Parker is that one day you stare at him trying to figure out what’s different. While everyone else around you experiences cognitive dissonance about the state of his back, eventually you realize his trapezius muscles are convex instead of concave. His wrists are broader, and the veins on his arms in the short sleeves of his gym shirt make you want to sketch. But it’s on his shoulders the foundation of your theory is born. Eventually you become sixty-seven percent sure that your theory is correct.

MJ now bumps her certainty up to ninety-nine percent. She’s pretty sure Peter’s foundation-bearing shoulders can take it.

“What the hell,” Flash whispers from somewhere in the vicinity. MJ isn’t sure where. Her eyes are caught on the v line trailing down Peter’s hip into his sweats like a fish on an illegally barbed hook. She wonders vaguely how his sweats are staying on as low as they are, the leather strap wrapped around his waist threatening to pull them down further. A weighted disc dangles in front of him, chained to the strap. And wow, apparently MJ is into butts. Who knew. Certainly not she.

“What the hell,” Flash repeats louder. This time MJ succeeds in tearing her eyes away from Peter’s obliques, feeling a rush of shame. She is male gazing so hard right now, and Peter’s lack of awareness and therefore lack of consent makes it all the worse. And Peter _is_ totally unaware of them, of that she's sure. He hasn't stopped his workout, glaring at the wall before him with his left side facing them. A red wireless ear bud pokes out of the ear MJ can see and she’s willing to bet it’s a matching pair.

Ms. Thornton has seemingly cottoned on to the team’s obvious discontent. “I’m sorry, do you recognize that man? Like I said, this gym _is_ open for use.”

Principal Morita is already staring at Mr. Harrington. “Roger,” he says, puzzled. “Why is Mr. Parker in there? Is this some sort of practical joke?” Mr. Harrington looks a cross between equally confused and resigned to the fact that his field trips will always go wrong somehow. He's O for 2 in MJ’s experience.

“That’s one of our students,” Principal Morita says to Ms. Thornton. “He was supposed to be on this trip, actually. Is anyone allowed in there?” Ms. Thornton blinks, completely thrown. She shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “A student…?”

The adults confer, which is mostly Ms. Thornton and Principal Morita staring at Mr. Harrington who is stumbling through an assurance that this is not a joke, or maybe it is but he isn’t in the know, or did Peter tell him about it, he _has_ been getting a little sidetracked due to the divorce proceedings—

“Forget why he’s here, why is he _jacked_?” Cindy whispers to Patricia, except everyone in AcaDec can hear her. “He makes Brad look like a chubbo.” Brad flushes red.

“No, no, no, no, _no way_!” Flash is saying. “Explain!” he hisses at Ned, who mouths wordlessly.

“He works here, doesn’t he?” MJ asks rhetorically. She’s proud of the way her voice doesn’t waver in the light of certain revelations. Flash pales further, if possible. “Except he doesn’t!” he snaps back. His voice does waver.

“Whoa, wait, what is he doing?” Patricia asks. Peter has done a one-handed pull up, his knees bent to rest the weighted disc on his thighs. With his left hand he is reaching for the disc, clicking something on the chain. It releases into his hand and Peter lifts it to his chest, the muscles on his arm bulging. He then slowly lowers himself down with just his right arm.

“Oh my god,” someone says, hushed, as he jumps the short distance to the ground. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair like a goddamn cover model before cocking his head, brow furrowed. MJ recognizes the gesture. It’s the same one he makes when Mrs. Warren mutters something under her breath that makes him laugh while he sits twenty feet away. Peter’s expression melts from puzzled to guilty before he turns away abruptly, and, still holding the disc, heads to the wall opposite them. He places his hand on a nondescript section, and to their surprise, it flashes blue around his palm before a door that wasn’t there before pushes back and slides to the right, out of view. Peter steps through the doorway (and wow, yeah, MJ is definitely an ass girl) and the door slides back to the left and forward, melding into the wall again.

“Whoa,” Patricia says again. MJ silently concurs.

“Well,” Ms. Thornton says, clapping her hands together. “I’m afraid we’re on a bit of a tight schedule, so we should keep moving.”

“Seriously?” Flash asks, the shock apparently destroying his decorum, “Shouldn’t we, like, report him or something?”

MJ has to hand it to her; whatever uncertainty Ms. Thornton had has been wiped from her face.

“Access to the gym _is_ prohibited, but as you could see Mister, ah, Parker was it? Mr. Parker _does_ have access,” she says pleasantly.

“But, but,” Flash stammers.

“Eugene, that’s enough. Any questions you have, and I assure you I have my own as well, can be saved for Mr. Parker. At a later time _,_ ” Principal Morita says. He sounds none too happy himself. Flash shrinks back.

As they continue walking, Michael jogs up to MJ. “Lucky you,” he says. “When you guys finally get together, do me a favor and tell Peter’s abs I’ll always treasure our time together. However brief.” He walks away snickering to catch up with Patricia and Cindy, who MJ’s pretty sure are already going over the play-by-play.

The thing is, MJ’s not totally oblivious. And she’d have to be to not notice the way Peter glances at her sometimes. He’s brought her coffee a few times in the mornings they have practice. Ned likes to elbow him when she’s approaching. He’ll text first, usually a political meme. MJ is fifty-eight percent sure he likes her. Apparently the rest of AcaDec is less on the fence.

MJ, on the other hand, is a pro at concealing her feelings. Maybe _too_ good. Maybe frustratingly, _what the hell is wrong with you; ask him out, you are better than this adherence to a useless gender construct, he knows your coffee order by heart, fucking do it Jones!_ good.

But besides her complete mental block on healthy communication, MJ doesn’t ask Peter out for the same reason she thinks Peter doesn’t ask her—the huge gaping secret between them that MJ is ninety-nine percent sure she already knows. Still, she’d prefer to hear it from Peter, as proof that he doesn’t just possibly like her, but _trusts_ her.

Wow, MJ thinks an hour later. In front of her Tony Stark holds a finger up in their direction, a phone to his ear. Based on the lack of reflective light on his face, it’s off. Does anyone else realize it’s off? Because it’s definitely off. As Tony spins his tale of coincidence his metal arm gleams gold and red. The red color matches Peter’s ear buds to a T.

Wow, MJ thinks again. Make that a solid hundred. She is a hundred percent sure Peter Parker is Spider-man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make that four chapters. One more chapter to go.
> 
> Please leave a comment, because otherwise I _will_ sulk.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up with a pounding headache, a full bladder, and the sinking feeling that he messed up. He glances towards the light, gently filtering through the window blinds and illuminating the medical equipment beside his bed. Yep. He's messed up.

_????_

Peter wakes up with a pounding headache, a full bladder, and the sinking feeling that he messed up. He glances towards the light, gently filtering through the window blinds and illuminating the medical equipment beside his bed. Yep. He's messed up.

As he sits up, red flashes out of the corner of his eye. An Iron Man plushie sits on a duffel bag on the visitor’s chair. Turned in Peter’s direction, it is simultaneously adorable and menacing. A folded over piece of paper that says ‘READ ME’ sits in its lap, resting on its chubby legs.

He ignores the order in favor of going to the bathroom, unclipping the pulse oximeter on his finger and pushing back bedsheets that smell so strongly of bleach his nose itches. He stands up too quickly and immediately sticks his feet to the floor before he tumbles, swinging wildly back to regain his balance. His body feels like the first time he woke up after gaining his powers; everything is too seamless, too smooth. The headache is new though. New and awful. Is this what a hangover feels like? Because no thank you. He stumbles to the adjoined bathroom and leaves the light off while he pees.

Once he’s finished he investigates the plushie more carefully. It’s the special release from the Ty Beanie line. He’d had one himself years ago before losing it, ironically, at the Stark Convention. The duffel the plushie is sitting on is his. He packed it—and here a series of connected thoughts fall into place like a series of dominos—he packed it, he packed it for the overnight, he was staying at the center overnight. He’s in the pajamas he packed, he realizes, and he flushes at the idea of Mr. Stark, _anyone really, but especially not Mr. Stark_ , changing him.

He finally picks up ‘READ ME’, which reveals that someone has removed the right arm from the plushie and carefully stitched it close. Unfortunately Peter could name several people with that sick sense of humor.

The note reads:

_‘Hey Pete. Had to take Morgan back home + be boring adult. Get some rest. Kitchen has soup. Cho says no screens for now = no phone. May says to STAY IN BED. SLEEP. Be back soon._

_-Tony_

_P.S. This is Morgan’s toy. OUT ON LOAN ONLY, ACCRUED INTEREST ACCEPTED IN THE FORM OF GUMMY BEARS. Her words, not mine.’_

Mr. Stark doesn’t _sound_ mad. It’s hard to figure out tone via a note, but Peter wouldn’t say it sounds mad. Maybe annoyed? He’d called May. Shit, Peter had promised May he’d be careful…

On the mission. He’d gone on a mission. Peter drops his head in his hands, trying to think through the headache, but it’s no use. His anxiety is ratcheting up, too sure he’s done something wrong, something bad. Why else would he be in the medbay? Peter breathes deeply, holds for three seconds, out three seconds, trying to control his heart rate the way Natasha taught him.

It’s not working. He’s too wired, too awake. He can’t go back to sleep but he can’t think straight either. He needs to _focus._

Suddenly he knows where he needs to go.

But first, he needs to figure out how to get there. He’s not very familiar with the medbay, having managed to avoid getting seriously injured in all the time he’s spent here. So much for that record.

Truthfully, Peter hasn’t spent much time in the Memorial Center at all. He’d outright avoided it while Mr. Stark was unconscious, then in recovery; all while it stayed a smoldering pile of ash. It was one of the most intense experiences of his life, and while he’s proud he was part of The Battle of Earth, it’s hard not to play it over in his head and wonder if there’s something he could’ve done better. Maybe if he’d made further ground with the gauntlet before handing it off to Ms. Danvers, or maybe just gotten it off on that other planet in the first place—maybe Mr. Stark’s arm wouldn’t be gone. Maybe he wouldn’t have been so close to death for so long—so long that Pepper, locked away in the cabin’s study where she thought Peter couldn’t hear her, had started contacting their lawyers to put Mr. Stark’s affairs in order.

Hearing Pepper quietly confirm Mr. Stark wanted to be cremated made Peter feel like he was choking, drowning in his own helplessness. He would close his eyes and be back in space, flinging himself away from the fight to catch the Guardians only to turn around and watch Thanos stick a dagger through Mr. Stark’s side. He was too far away to do anything then, so he’d froze, knowing he was about to watch Tony die.

Except he hadn’t, and even when they’d lost the Time Stone to Thanos Peter hadn’t cared as much as he should’ve, because at least Mr. Stark was alive. Except an hour (five years) later he was back on Earth and Mr. Stark snapped his fingers and Peter was too far away, _again._ He’d thought he’d gotten better at _being there_ , at _doing something_ , but it was like watching Ben get shot all over again, down to the crying wife trying to make funeral arrangements.

He had all these powers as Spider-Man, but he didn’t know how to _use_ them. Not when it came to protecting the people he cared about.

When Tony had opened his eyes it hadn’t stopped the constant replay, the what-ifs that plagued Peter. He was sick of his own incapability, but he didn’t know how to overcome it until the first time he’d come back to the Stark Memorial Center. Tony had invited him to the official opening, unaware of Peter’s apprehension about the building. When he’d arrived as Spider-man, ultimately unable to come up with an excuse not to attend, Peter was relieved to find no trace of the death and destruction he’d had to stumble through, helping support Tony’s body with Captain America as Dr. Strange barked orders; only floor-to-ceiling windows, elaborate mosaics, and Tony’s arm around his shoulders, strong and warm.

That arm had directed him to Natasha Romanov, whose funeral he’d attended several months prior. Shaking her hand as they reintroduced themselves, Peter had known exactly who could teach him to be a better hero.

But unfortunately Natasha accepting his request means the bulk of his time here is either spent at the gym for training sessions or in the communal space. He knows the medbay is on the upper levels, closer to the helipad, but he’s not sure where everything else is in relation. Normally he would ask FRIDAY for guidance, but FRIDAY isn’t active in the Stark Memorial Center over privacy concerns. She does have access to the guest system and can be activated in case of emergency by Tony or someone else with her codes, but otherwise she is dormant.

It takes Peter a little while to find the elevators, unabashedly padding around in his Spider-Man themed pajama bottoms (he and Morgan have a matching pair) and bare feet. Once he finds them, he recalls what floor he wants and soon enough finds himself in the locker room. He stuffs his duffel in the locker he always uses, pulling out a pair of sweatpants and the Holy Grail, his noise-cancelling ear buds. Those he sticks in his ears immediately.

Rather than turning on any music, Peter keeps them off. Custom fit and military grade, the immediate silence that follows helps abate the pulsing of his head by a fair amount. He ditches his ratty t-shirt and bottoms for just the sweats and heads into the gym, access allowed via a scan of his hand. Three sets of identical-looking discs sit on racks before him, but the color of the heavily reinforced racks indicate who they belong to and thus their real weight. The black rack is for the humans, such as Mr. Stark, Natasha, and Sam, and thus the discs weigh within the realm of an athletic human’s capabilities. The red rack is Steve’s, so each disc increases in weight by 200 lbs. Finally, Peter’s discs, settled on the blue rack, each increase by 5 tons.

Peter wraps the leather strap around his waist and attaches the 20 ton weight to the chain, then jumps to the pull up bar where others would normally use a stepstool.

The bar dents at the slightest touch of his fingertips and he drops down in shock.

Peter stares at the faint imprint he’s made in the bar, crystal clear with his enhanced vision, then at his hands. He’s never done that to Tony’s equipment. He can’t. It’s built to withstand him, and regardless, he’s got better control than that.

…Doesn’t he?

“You need to focus,” Natasha’s voice says in his head. “Focus breeds calm. Calm helps control. First, breathe,” he breathes, “close your eyes,” he closes his eyes, “don’t stop breathing, Peter. In through your mouth, two three, out through your mouth, two three. Keep doing it. Feel the way the breath moves through your body. Be aware of your diaphragm.”

Peter sinks into the silence and darkness, breathing. As his body relaxes further, he his abilities kick in to help him keep his equilibrium. His body wakes up. Every sensation registers; the hairs on his arms standing up, a speck of dust landing on his cheek, the faint breeze from the vents caressing his hair. Keeping his eyes closed, he jumps again. The air that hits his body diverts around the bar, carving out a thin oblong space in the darkness. His spidey-sense tingles right before he can stub his fingers, and instead he flexes and closes his hand around the bar. This time it doesn’t crumple. He grabs it with his other hand, and begins his first set.

When he’d first started attending Avengers sessions in the gym, he hadn’t understood the point of weight training. Learning to fight hand-to-hand—and more importantly, disarm—that he could get behind. There had already been instances in the past where he’d run out of web fluid, and while he could duck and weave like no one’s business (thank you spidey-sense), being able to dodge didn’t really help end conflicts so much as prolong them.

But he’d assumed this was just how the Avengers training sessions worked, and as the only enhanced participant and unofficial member he wasn’t about to rock the boat. One day Sam had quietly muttered “that’s just messed up,” as he rushed through several hundred bicep curls, and he’d looked up to see Natasha eying him thoughtfully. He’d beamed, hoping he’d impressed her—he hadn’t even broken a sweat. Hell yeah, super strength.

“You know, Steve goes on a run every morning,” Natasha had said afterwards, while Peter wiped down a machine. Sam had already left. “He gets up at 6am every day and just goes for it. He doesn’t need to, not with the serum. His stamina isn’t going anywhere. But he does it anyway. Do you know why?”

Peter didn’t.

Natasha had shrugged. “Neither do I,” she said. “I’ve never asked. But if I had to guess, I’d say it’s because he knows how important it is to know your own body. Normally when people work out they build muscles, yes, but they also build an understanding of the way they work. They come to know their own capabilities: what they can withstand and what they can’t. When you have an enhancement, you get the end result without the process—without the understanding.

“You can be a perfectly good Avenger and never step foot in this gym. You’ve already proven it in the past few years. You’ve got the drive, the strength, the instinct, and the experience. But if that’s not enough for you, and I think that it isn’t, then I want you to do the strength training too, and really try at it. I want you to learn exactly what you’re capable of, so that you also know what you’re not. Find your limits,” and then she’d smirked, “because that’s the only way you can exceed them.”

He’d taken it seriously after that. And unsurprisingly, Natasha was right. He feels in tune with his body, and with that comes better focus, better control. Now when he works out, he makes sure to break a sweat. Mr. Stark has even gotten him the custom weights, though all the while bemoaning his favorite nerd being brainwashed into a ‘gym rat’—patently untrue, seeing as Peter _still_ doesn’t spend that much time at the center now that Mr. Stark and Pepper have moved back to the city for Morgan’s elementary school.

Peter stays on the bar for an indeterminable time, sinking deeper into the comforting monotony—headache gone. Distantly he’s realized something is different with the composition of the bar. It’s normal metal, and that’s why he’d dented it. Typically he’d have no problem with that, but he’s become accustomed to the natural resistance of vibranium. It’s something he needs to be aware of now, so as not to make the same mistake, but he enjoys the challenge.

_“Peter,”_ Mr. Stark says in his ear. Peter doesn’t startle, still too focused, but it does cause him to stutter for a second on his next pull-up.

_“I want you to listen to me and listen carefully Spider-boy, or you’re grounded.”_ Mr. Stark says from his earbuds. He’s hacked into them, which isn’t all that crazy because a) he’s the one who designed them for Peter and b) it’s not even the first time he’s done so. “ _I mean you’re grounded either way but—okay, okay, shut up. Peter, do five more reps. Keep looking forward, that’s right. Then get down.”_

Peter opens his mouth to ask why, but Mr. Stark beats him to the punch. _“Ah ah ah! No questions! Or are you forgetting you were on bed rest until otherwise instructed? Do as I say, that’s right,”_ he says coaxingly as Peter jumps down from the bar. _“Now go to the locker room, ah! Do not stop to put the weight back, do not collect 200, do not pass go. Locker room, now.”_

Peter marches himself to the lockers, dread building. He was wrong; Mr. Stark _is_ pissed after all. He must be.

However, angry Iron Man is nowhere to be found. _“Leave the weight on the floor and hit the showers. I’ll meet you upstairs,”_ Mr. Stark says, tone inscrutable. Peter does so, going through a rollercoaster of emotions while he shampoos his hair. Is he going to get kicked out of the Avengers? Mr. Stark wouldn’t do that to him, right? Natasha wouldn’t let him, though Sam might—unless he’s already messed up so poorly yesterday that Natasha’s given up on him. Crap. Crap crap crap.

No, Peter decides, he’s earned his spot. He travelled through space! He fought alongside Thor! _Thor!_ Hawkeye nodded at him once! Sure he made a mistake, but he’s trying to be better! He’s already making progress!

Whatever, Peter thinks as he changes into his day clothes. He doesn’t need to be an Avenger. He’s still Spider-man. He’ll always be Spider-man. He doesn’t even need the suit. Sure, he’d _prefer_ to keep it, but he can do without.

_“Hello Peter,_ ” FRIDAY says as he exits the lockers. Peter jumps.

“H-Hey FRIDAY. How are you?” he says, walking down the corridor.

_“I am fine, thank you for asking. How are you?”_

“I’m okay, thanks. Did Mr. Stark turn you on?” It makes sense in retrospect. How else could Mr. Stark have seen what Peter was doing? If he’d been near the gym he would’ve come inside to talk to Peter or met him in the locker room instead of communicating via the earbuds.

_“Yes. Boss has asked me to direct you upstairs.”_

“Oh,” Peter says, flushing. Does Mr. Stark trust Peter so little he’s activated FRIDAY to keep an eye on him? “I’m on my way. Thanks FRIDAY.”

_“Please turn right here,”_ FRIDAY says abruptly.

Peter frowns. “Shouldn’t I keep going straight, FRIDAY? The elevators are up ahead.”

_“Boss would like you to use the private stairs, as there are currently civilians on this floor.”_

Peter frowns. “I thought the Center was closed to the public on Sundays.”

FRIDAY is silent. _“I am told this is a special circumstance,”_ she says after a moment.

Peter shrugs and heads for the stairs. Mr. Stark’s general rule of thumb is that Peter stay out of sight in the general areas, lest someone confuse him for a lost kid—though Peter will uphold he looks way too old for that, and up until this point was pretty sure Tony was just teasing him.

As soon as Peter arrives at the kitchen-living room combo he comes across Sam and Natasha. Sam is finishing up a bowl of salad at the marble countertop while Natasha, sitting on the couch, has obviously been expecting him.

“Come,” she says, waving him over. She pats the couch in invitation and he cautiously walks past Sam and takes a seat. Clad in jeans and a hoodie with her foot tucked under her knee, she doesn’t seem angry. She gestures to a Rueben sitting on the coffee table before them, alongside a tall glass of water.

“Eat that,” she says.

Peter, bewildered, hesitates.

“It’s not a bomb, kid. It’s past noon and you haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Sam says. “Eat the sandwich. Tony picked it up from Katz’s like the snob he is.”

Peter obeys. He plans on only having a bite, but instead finds himself inhaling it, all the while enduring Natasha’s stare. Sam grabs his plate before he can say anything and starts doing the dishes.

“Uh,” Peter says, not quite able to make eye contact with Natasha. “Where’s Mr. Stark?”

“First he went to go change into his suit, but now he’s probably with your friends,” Natasha says. She gestures to the blank TV in front of them. “FRIDAY’s promised to let us watch the show.”

“…I’m sorry, what?” Peter asks. Sam hurls himself over the couch, dropping down beside Peter. He’s got a bag of popcorn that he starts emptying into a bowl.

“You were doing your muscleman routine in front of your classmates,” Sam says. “Steve is going to be sad he missed this.”

“Steve would be a buzzkill,” Natasha says, reaching over Peter for a few kernels. “He’s too empathetic to enjoy this stuff.”

_“I will have a record of this event, should Mr. Rogers wish to review it at a later time,”_ FRIDAY says.

_“_ … _What?_ ” Peter repeats, higher. He jumps from the couch, whirling around to face Natasha and Sam.

“What-wait-what do you mean my classmates? Why would they be here?” he asks.

“They had a tour, apparently,” Natasha says.

“But, but,” Peter says. They do. It’s the reward for winning Nationals. But that isn’t until—“But that’s not until Monday!”

Sam snorts. “Kid, it _is_ Monday.”

Peter pales. Natasha’s amusement fades to something softer at his expression. “What do you last remember?” she asks gently.

Sam and Natasha help fill in the missing pieces, and eventually he finds himself sandwiched between them again, somberly eating popcorn. On the TV, now turned on, Tony is casually walking alongside his Academic Decathlon. God, Ned must be bursting with excitement.

“How’s your head?” Natasha asks.

“Better,” Peter says. The pain has all but subsided. “What is Mr. Stark going to tell them?” he asks, gesturing to the screen.

Natasha shrugs. “I don’t know, but you can trust him. I’m sure he’s got a plan.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “We’re talking about the same guy who had an infinity gauntlet option built into his suit. He’s got contingencies on top of contingencies.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like Mr. Stark is big on secret identities or anything,” Peter says.

“Not for himself, but he knows how important it is to you,” Natasha says firmly. “You want to protect your family and your friends, Peter, he gets that.” She pauses for a moment, eyes strange. “Is that why you would just lose whenever we sparred? Because you were trying to protect me?”

“No, no, I—“ Peter stammers. His shoulders slump. “Sort of. But I thought I was figuring it out. Learning my limits, you know.”

“It’s not just about learning them, you need to communicate them too,” Natasha says gently. “We can’t help you if you don’t say anything.”

“I was getting better! I think. You’ve taught me so much about honing my control, I don’t have any slip-ups day-to-day, I just—“ Peter blushes. “It was embarrassing,” he admits.

Natasha raises an eyebrow at his choice of words. “Embarassing,” she repeats. Peter flushes further, evasive.

“Ohhh,” Sam says. “ _That_ kind of embarrassing?” He sends a little shrug in Natasha’s direction. “You said this happens when he gets some adrenaline going?” he prompts, smirking a little.

“Huh,” Natasha says, cottoning on, just as Peter does.

“No, no!” he shrieks, “Not with—I mean, you’re very beautiful Ms. Widow, but I would never, not because you’re not, I mean it would be inappropriate, and objectifying, and that is definitely not how it’s embarrassing, I mean _it is,_ but not because of _you_ , again not because—“

“Okay, that’s enough,” Natasha says. “Look what you’ve done,” she says to Sam, who’s looking a little stunned himself.

“Deep breaths, Peter,” Natasha directs. “Let me see if I’ve got this right—you didn’t tell us about your control issue because you thought you were handling it on your own, _and_ you find it embarrassing. You find it embarrassing because it’s tied into your excitement, and sometimes you get excited about a person, a person who is _not me_ , no offense taken, but a person you find attractive.”

Peter, staring at the ground: “I don’t know if it’s tied into… _that_ excitement. But I think it might be? Which sucks because,” Peter steels himself, “because I really like this girl and I want to ask her out but what if she says yes and I try to kiss her and I break her face?”

Natasha reaches across Peter to grab Sam by the arm as he goes to put the popcorn bowl down and run.

“Come on Natasha, this is not my department,” he says seriously.

“You’re a _trained counselor_ ,” she says.

“For veterans with post-traumatic stress, not super-powered teenagers that want to get laid,” Sam says. “That-that’s not,” Peter starts to object. They both shoot him a look that has him shrinking back.

“Okay, fine, I’ll take a crack at it,” Sam says, sighing. “Peter, do you ever get aroused while fighting?”

“Oh god, please forget I said anything,” Peter says, burying his face in his hands.

“What I’m trying to say, kid, is I think you might be overthinking this. Kicking a HYDRA agent that’s about to shoot me in the head is vastly different from, _y’know_. The chemical response in your brain is different. I mean Stark probably knows better than me but adrenaline is its own hormone, and its part of a stress response. The hormones you generate during, ah fuck it, during _sex_ are different.

“And honestly I think the best person you can talk to about this is Steve. Don’t look at me like that, Natasha, this isn’t deflection; this is just straight facts. He’s enhanced, Steve’s enhanced. He wants to have sex, Steve’s had sex.”

“You want me to ask Captain America for sex advice?” Peter squeaks out. “Oh god, it’d be like those videos but in person and worse.”

“It wouldn’t be like the videos,” Natasha says over Sam’s “what videos?”

“Just think about it. Steve could have some really good advice. Not just about being intimate, but about the other aspect of your control, which, for the record, I do think you’re better at than you give yourself credit. Actually you two should’ve talked a while ago,” Natasha says, partly to herself. “You have a lot in common. Either way, we’ll work on it together,” she smirks at him, “You’re not the first enhanced individual I’ve trained.”

“Mysterious,” Sam deadpans.

_“Excuse me,”_ FRIDAY says, _“Peter’s name has been mentioned. Raising the volume now.”_

_“Peter Parker? Huh,”_ Tony says to the AcaDec group and, is that Principal Morita? It is. All of a sudden Peter feels warm, the way he would feel whenever Pepper tucked a blanket around him and Morgan at the cabin. How could he ever think Mr. Stark was going to kick him out of the Avengers? Mr. Stark is going to lie to his Principal for him. He’s walked out of a PTA meeting with Pepper, put on a suit, and gone to protect Peter’s secret identity because it’s _important to Peter,_ even though he’s ‘casually’ mentioned how easy it would be to get May and Ned a security detail if Peter ever wanted to have an itty-bitty little press conference a thousand times.

_“Peter, Peter, Peter-Peter-Peter,”_ Tony says. Everyone, people on the couch included, wait with baited breath.

_“Nope. Never heard of him.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say _four_ chapters? Clearly I meant _five_. Or is it six? Who knows, certainly not me, obviously. 
> 
> Leave a comment please, it makes my deadened heart race.


End file.
